The Case of the Entreating Woman
by KaizokuShojo
Summary: A desperate woman comes to Sherlock Holmes for help, certain that her lover is a genuine criminal. But, will Holmes be able to clear the mystery? Or will the scoundrel escape unscathed? Prequel to Brother.
1. Suspicion

_**The Case of the Entreating Woman**_

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_**DISCLAIMER:**_** I had nothing to do with the creation of Sherlock Holmes, obviously. The honour of being their creator belongs to the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**KS: Hallo, and thanks for deciding to read **_**The Case of the Entreating Woman.**_** This first chapter may be a little confusing, but I am certain that, if you stick with reading it, you will find it at least a little interesting. I've been planning this for quite a while now...well, I've had the idea for it, anyways. Maybe not so much 'planning'. XD**

**And it's been sitting in my fic-folder for a while now...I thought I might as well put it up. Even though it's a bit odd.**

**Enjoy!**

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A young woman burst from the room, her face buried deeply in her hands as she sobbed. A moment later a tall, handsome man followed at her heels, bereft of waistcoat, cravat, or collar. His face was tight and his green eyes angry as he snatched the girl's arm harshly, spinning her around with the ease of a doll and holding her tightly against him with the other arm. His firm lips eased into a smile, though his eyes still flashed.

"Hold on, now," he said. "Wait a little. Don't just go like that."

"You…you…Pig! You monster!!" the woman cried, tears rolling down her fair face.

The man's face tightened again.

"Pig? _Monster_? After all I've done for you, you dare to say such things?"

"After all you've done for me…? After all you've done _to_ me, rather!!"

"I've done nothing to you yet." the man said coolly, still maintaining his painful grip on her.

The woman noted the word 'yet'.

He might have looked perfectly calm, but she could read the boding danger in his emerald eyes and decided that now was the time to confront him with her suspicions.

"I know that necklace you gave me…" she said, starting as small as she could to gauge his reaction, "…was stolen. I'm certain of it."

His face did not move; she continued.

"And I don't think some of that money you used yesterday was quite…right. Something was odd about it. I don't think it was real."

His brows drew together very slightly, but nothing more than that. She took a breath; now it was time for the big one.

"And you…_killed_ that man that came here last night, didn't you?" she breathed accusingly.

His eyes widened ever so slightly, and for a moment she wasn't sure what he was going to do, but then his tight lips curled into a slight smile and his face softened, though his eyes continued to burn dangerously into hers.

"Such fears from such a delicate girl…there's no need for them…" he said smoothly, bending forward and kissing her firmly on the lips.

The kiss lasted only a moment, and when he ended it and looked at her she blushed and swallowed. Her eyes darted over the man's countenance quickly, as if she was unsure whether to be upset at this or not.

"I assure you, none of your fears have any grounds," the man continued. "As for the man, he had to hurry back to America--something unforseen arose. As for the money, that is some of the newer print. And the necklace…" He fingered at the pearls circling her neck. "It was imported."

It was now the girl's turn to be silent. The man sighed through his nose, continuing to smile softly, and cocked his head slightly as he looked down at her.

"Don't worry your pretty little head, Abby. You're just being paranoid…" He ran his hand through her dark red hair, and she felt slightly nervous. He knew she liked her hair to be played with.

"But...Jack..." She muttered.

His hand went deeper into her hair, stroking it fondly. She was not certain if he was trying to belay her suspicions or if it was something else. She had a feeling deep in the pit of her stomach that she should be careful. All of the little things she had seen that seemed odd were now coming to mind as he pressed his lips against her forehead, and she wanted immediately to pull away. But she knew better than to do so; he had a furious temper, and she had the bruises on her wrist to prove it.

She would have to bide her time. And she would need help.

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**KS: This is just a set-up...something _like_ a teaser to see what you'll say about it. XDD I won't post ch. 2 until I think I've recieved enough reviews! xD**

**I might very well discontinue this fic if I decide later there's no point in doing it...**


	2. Mr Sherlock Holmes

_**The Case of the Entreating Woman**_

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_**DISCLAIMER**_**: **_**I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Here it is, chapter two. At the beginning is somewhat of an answer to KCS's "Sherlock Holmes blood test" prompt. (I've just always thought that Watson never had occasion to mention a test in which the blood test was used…So I made a situation. xD)**

**I'm sorry if this chapter seems a bit odd...I have had a rather annoying headache for the past few days, and I was in a rush, so this was not beta-read or anything before being posted.**

**Oh well. Enjoy!**

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Sherlock Holmes was situated at his chemical-table, his thin hands working with surprising finesse and quickness with his delicate instruments. Watson was out on errands, and the great detective was busy investigating a murder. A simple affair, but Gregson hadn't seen it as such, and had surprisingly consulted him on the matter.

He moved a small vessel of water before him in which he had been soaking a small piece of brown-stained cloth. He carefully added some white crystals, followed by a few drops of a transparent fluid, and just as he had expected, the mixture turned a dull mahogany colour and the characteristic brown dust gathered at the bottom.

He sighed as one would when bored by the commonplace and took up a telegraph form, writing quickly his conclusions to send off to the Yard.

Just then, the bell rang. Holmes's brow furrowed lightly and he stood to his feet, his grey dressing-gown billowing behind him as he moved to the sitting-room door. In a moment Mrs. Hudson had ascended, bringing a card upon her tray.

"A young lady to see you, sir," she announced.

Holmes snatched the card from the tray and glanced over it. "Miss Abigail Scott..." he read thoughtfully. "Show her up, Mrs. Hudson. And if you would, please send this telegram off for me."

He passed the form over to the good woman, who nodded and descended to send the new visitor up. Holmes cleared a chair of his research so the client could sit down—for what else could she be but a client?—and made sure his chemical-bottles were re-capped and sealed.

In only a few moments the woman entered. She was fair, young, fashionable… She did not work, but had someone taking very good care of her. It did not seem as if she had any real duties to speak of…

"Pray, sit down," said Holmes, gently leading the young lady to a chair, for he could tell by her countenance she was troubled, "and tell me why you have come to consult me."

Holmes studied the woman as she sat and collected herself; her hands folded and unfolded nervously in her lap.

"Well, Mr. Holmes…" she began, "I had a friend come to you some time ago—Miss Rachel Edwards. She spoke of you once or twice, and I thought that you would be much better to come to about my situation than the police."

One of Holmes's black brows rose.

"You see," the woman continued, "I don't exactly have any actual proof of wrongdoing…Nothing that will get him into any trouble, that is. He has too much money and influence."

"Who, Miss Scott?"

"He's…my…" The woman blushed and stared at the floor.

"You are his mistress, and you are not entirely certain that you wish to divulge his name for fear of losing his love, or, just as likely, his money," Holmes said.

The woman's eyes rose to meet Holmes's. "It _isn't_ the money. I wouldn't care if Jack was the poorest man on earth…but…" her voice trailed once again.

"Miss Scott, I cannot help you unless you give me the details. And if this 'Jack' has illegal dealings you are better off without him. Now pray, tell me what has worried you."

The woman was quiet for a minute, but finally she took a deep breath and began. "Have you ever heard of a man named 'Jackson Hughes', Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes's dark brows knitted together, and he leaned back, stretching a thin arm out for his index. He flipped through, his steely eyes darting over the pages, until finally they came to rest upon the article he was searching for.

" 'Jackson Hughes…son of Reginald Hughes of Oxfordshire and Margaret Tyler Hughes of New York… Educated at Oxford University for two years and has excelled in the sports of boxing and hunting...' " Holmes's voice trailed as he read the rest of the article, and finally he snapped the book shut and looked at the young woman before him. "This is the man you speak of, correct?"

The woman nodded.

"And what has he done?"

"It's hard to say. He gambles, but that's nothing. I suspect more," said the woman. "For one thing, he has used money in the past that I am quite sure is not right."

"Not right? Counterfeit, you mean?"

"Yes, that's it."

"Do you have any of this money with you?"

"…No… He never lets me have any of my own money. He has said that it would make me a target for a robber, and that if I was robbed he should never forgive himself."

"I see. Do you have any other suspicions?"

"He gave me a necklace—a pearl necklace—a week ago, and I'm certain it was stolen."

"Can you describe this necklace?"

"Yes…he said he had imported it. It was a string of pearls, and there was one large, radiant, tear-shaped pearl in the centre at the fore of the necklace."

"Do you have it with you?"

"…It disappeared the morning after I asked if he had stolen it."

"Indeed? Most interesting."

"But these are trifles, Mr. Holmes. I suspect more. I suspect..." Here, the lady paused and composed herself before continuing. "I suspect he has killed men."

Holmes's grey eyes widened and he leaned forward in his chair with interest. "Pray, continue, and do not omit a detail, no matter how small it may seem."

"A man came to the house three days ago, for example. He seemed very nervous; Jack said he was to be our house-guest for a few days. He had an American accent, but I cannot recall much else about him…"

"Do you remember his name?"

"Only his surname—Garret. Well, during the night I did not sleep well, and I heard him and Jack and a few others elsewhere in the house talking, and though it was quiet I knew Jack's voice. He sounded angry. Their footsteps passed my door, and I fell back into a soft sleep after that…but, I swear I heard Mr. Garret scream."

"Nothing else?"

"Some loud noise, but I don't think it was a gunshot," the woman replied.

"I see. What did it sound like, then?"

"I'm not sure…something hard," she said. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, I cannot tell you how frightened I am! And yet…I cannot leave him."

"You are subject to his ill tempers," Holmes supplied, observing the finger-mark bruises on her wrist as she brought her handkerchief to her eye. "Miss Scott, you needn't worry. Do not accost him further, but rely on me. Do _not_ let him know that you have come to see me; do you have an excuse to give if he asks where you have been?"

"I told him that I was visiting a friend to-day," she replied. "I was going to see her after I came to consult you."

"Excellent. Do take precaution that no one is following you; if they do, do not act suspicious. Send word to me by some reliable method he cannot trace if anything urgent arises."

"Then you will look into it?"

"I will look into it. It appears to be an interesting problem."

"Oh, _thank you_, Mr. Holmes! Please, do be careful. Jack is very strong, and very rich, and his temper is fierce."

"I have dealt with many unscrupulous villains in my time, Miss Scott, have no fear. If he has any illegal dealings, I will find out. You reside with him?"

"...Yes. In his house outside London," she replied.

"Then I certainly cannot reach you there," Holmes said.

"You can send a message to my friend's house," said the woman, writing something down on the back of one of her cards. "And I will get it."

"Excellent," said Holmes, taking the card and looking at it. "I will send word when I find anything."

"I cannot thank you enough," said Miss Scott, standing.

"It is my business," said Holmes, waving it off and opening the door wide for his client. "Good-bye, Miss Scott."

"Good-bye, Mr. Holmes."

Miss Abigail Scott left, and Holmes shut the door after her. His black brows drew together as he walked distractedly over to the mantelpiece and took up his oily black clay pipe.

Jackson Hughes...the name was certainly familiar. He was a very excellent boxer, and had not lost a match in years. Now a new 'occupation' of this man had been brought to his attention...

It was obvious from that young woman's description that this was a man over much criminal activity, but how had he not noticed a presence such as that before? He had felt the tremors of various criminal organisations…but nothing that would fit with a rich young gentleman being the leader, unless he was far too good at his game. Holmes filled the pipe with the tobacco from the slipper as he thought.

He could feel the excitement deep inside, cool, quick, and subtle as it welled up within him. This case seemed promising. Holmes placed his pipe between his teeth, struck a match, and held it in the bowl. It was always an intellectual treat to go up against the great unknown of the larger criminal world. His instincts told him it would be a problem he would remember for years to come...

Little did he realise how deeply it would affect him.

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**KS: Thanks for reading! Now, I suppose you can tell that this fic will have an open ending, as it is obviously a prequel to _Brother_. **

**Don't forget to review!**


	3. Contacts

_**The Case of the Entreating Woman**_

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_**DISCLAIMER**_**: **_**I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Here it is, chapter three! I apologise greatly for the inconvenience of having to wait so very long for an update on both this AND **_**Two Suspects**_**, but not only has my life been an absolute mess, but the stress of that has caused quite a case of writer's block. But, I'm trying.**

**Thanks to KCS for beta-reading! **

**Enjoy!**

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Holmes puffed thoughtfully at his pipe, the room quickly growing hazy as he consumed his tobacco. He replaced the scrap-book he had been searching through and drew out another, flipping through it as his teeth bit down firmly on the stem of his pipe to free his hands. He distinctly remembered pasting a cut-out from the paper into this book on Jackson Hughes…he would just have to find—aha! there it was.

It was an article on his latest boxing championship victory; there was even an illustration of the final winning blow above the text of the story.

So far as his research had gone, Hughes seemed to be an affluent, strong, noble sort of man—the desirable chivalrous image that the news-clippings portrayed was in stark contrast to the portrait of the man Miss Scott had given him. Holmes tucked the scrap-book away. The best thing to do would be to sound out the criminal underground…he would have to find a few of his contacts and ask what they had heard on him, and he possibly might have to go into disguise himself to see what he could learn.

Holmes began to write out his messages to his contacts; it would never do to meet them where they were, lest his contacts lose their credibility in the criminal world. He handed the messages off to be sent settled himself into his chair to wait, drawing his long legs up and wrapping his arms around his shins. Until one of his contacts replied, there was nothing more to do. He had looked through all of the information he had on Hughes, he was sure.

Smoking and meditating on what he had already found seemed like a perfect way to pass the time until then.

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"Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson called, knocking twice and entering the sitting-room. Holmes's eyes opened and his head rose expectantly.

"Yes?" he asked.

She had three letters on her tray, and Holmes quickly stood to his feet and snatched them up. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he said as he tore open the first.

The landlady nodded and left, and the detective ran his eyes eagerly over the words of the first message:

_Sir_, (it ran) _Unable to come, but I do know the gent you speak of. He knowes most everything goin on, so I don't say much, but he's a powerful one. Blackmail, crib and safe-cracking, murder, and everything else. Though he don't do everything himself. He's got men all over the town, and outside of it. Even in America, I hear. But I hear he's untouchable. No proof on him. That's all I know. Same arrangements._

_—P. H._

Holmes's brow furrowed, and he tossed the first onto his table before opening the next:

_Mister Basil, I know the fellow. I'm afraid I can't help you, thouh. He's not the most powurful but he's the worst of the lot, with a devil's temper. Those who know him call him 'The Devil'. I hear you can't get nothing on him, thouh. But I don't have no business with him, since I stay far away from him, so I can't help you. Same as last time, under the bridge._

_—D. T. _

Holmes likewise tossed this one on top of the last and proceeded to devour the last message:

_Sir, I know a bit of the matter. Will see you like last time. _

_—H. G._

At last a satisfied smile touched the detective's lips. H. G., or _Harry Grossman_, was an excellent informant—a nondescript sort of criminal that could weave in and out of all sorts of illegal circles. When he said that he would see him like the last time, he meant that he would come at precisely thirty minutes past five o'clock. That would be… Holmes pulled out his watch and consulted it…in exactly two hours and twenty-three minutes. Hm.

Holmes closed his watch with an impatient snap. He had nothing he could do in such an amount of time. He frowned with annoyance. He proceeded to refill his pipe, light it, and began to pace the room.

_Two hours and twenty-two minutes…_

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Holmes glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Seven minutes before the appointment with his contact.

The landlady ascended the stair, bringing up a tray of tea and biscuits. It didn't seem to matter who the guests were; Mrs. Hudson seemed to think it would be a sin to not offer something to a guest if she knew they were coming. She glanced around at the state of disarray the sitting-room was in and shook her head, but it was nearly impossible to get Mr. Holmes to clean. The only time he had energy enough to tackle a mess like this was when he was working, and of course he was too busy _then_ to do it! She dusted off her hands on her apron.

"If you need anything else, Mr. Holmes—" she began, but the detective impatiently waved her off. "Very well," she sighed, turning and leaving.

As she descended the stair, Holmes heard a ring of the bell. A few minutes early…well, he hadn't expected a criminal to be exact with his timing, anyway. He heard the exchange of two voices in the hall, and in a moment a heavy, uneven step was heard making its way up. In another moment a man of medium-build and regular features appeared in the doorway, clothed in a seedy suit and glancing around with shifty eyes. Holmes waved him to the settee.

"Pray sit down, Mr. Grossman," he said. "Would you care for some refreshment?"

The man eyed the tea and biscuits on the table, but shook his head. "Nay, Mr. 'olmes. Ay can't stand anyfing sweet. Just my reward'll do."

"When I get what I want, of course," said Holmes.

Grossman nodded. "O' course. You say you want'ta know about Jackson Hughes?" he asked, sitting down.

"Yes. What do you know?" Holmes said as he likewise sat.

"More'n Ay'd like to, for sure," said Grossman, removing his battered hat. "Some call 'im 'The Devil' or 'Jack the Devil', and so on like that. It's 'cause of 'is temper. Nasty, angry man, but 'e's got words like 'oney and looks t' match, and the women flock to 'im. Men flock to 'im, too, but for 'is money. 'E pays 'is men good wages, Ay 'ear, but the work's dangerous. Gotta be willin' to take the fall for 'im… 'e can't be touched in the courts. No one can ever get any evidence 'gainst 'im. 'E's 'detached' from 'is crimes. Don't know 'ow 'e does it, seein' 'e's part of some ov 'em."

"You know all of this?" Holmes asked.

"Well…Ay don't say Ay _know_ it…Ay've more come it by 'earin' it."

"I see. Do you know anything else?"

"Mm…" Grossman rubbed his unshaven jaw thoughtfully. "Lessee… 'E 'as a lot ov money…lot of influence… lot of…_connexions_…"

"How have I not heard of him before?" Holmes inquired.

"Ah, 'e's only been in the game fer a year and a 'alf now, fer one fing…maybe a little longer. 'E also don't play up too much big stuff…'e does a lot o' little, quiet work…'cept murder. That's somefin he does a lot, but usually nobody important. 'E does a _lot _ov blackmail and 'as a lot o' crib-crackin and the like done. That's 'is main fing."

"I see. Does he have a particular style?"

"Ay dunno…Ay can only say what I 'ear, and Ay hain't 'eard nofin' about 'is style," Grossman replied. "Not that Ay recall, anyway."

"And you can tell me nothing more?"

"No, sir. That's all Ay know. Jus' as long as 'e don't 'ear Ay'm inquirin' after 'im, Ay'll be fine, and Ay'll try to get you more on 'im. But if Ay were you, Ay'd make sure 'e don't find out Ay'm inquirin' after 'im, eiver. Fer yer own sake."

"Indeed? Thank you for your information and advice, Mr. Grossman," said Holmes, taking the man's fee from his pocket.

The man nodded, eyeing the money. "It was easy enough t' tell," he said.

Holmes gave the man the money and he left with another nod, just as carefully as he came. Holmes sat back down heavily into his armchair, his brows drawn together and chin sunk upon his breast. He took up his pipe and relit it, taking long, preoccupied draws from it.

He knew now how long Hughes had supposedly been dabbling in the world of crime, and what he mainly dealt in. His lids drooped over his distant grey eyes into an expression of intense concentration. Now he must recall as many similar crimes of the sort as he could in that time frame. He must find patterns…must connect all the loose ends that he could to see if they connected…

It was a large task. Holmes's breath quickened in a brief gasp of excitement, more smoke surging into his lungs. It would give him a starting-point from which to work on. All he needed was a little time.

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**KS: Thanks for reading; don't forget to review!**


	4. Pubs

_**The Case of the Entreating Woman**_

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_**DISCLAIMER**_**: **_**I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Here it is, chapter four! I'm very, very sorry again for the slow updates…my life is absolutely insane. The quality of this chapter probably won't be very good because my heart and mind are not fully into it right now, but I am trying! XDD**

**Enjoy!**

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A dirty, haggard man in a frogged jacket limped his way to a table in the seedy tavern. His nose was crooked from having been broken multiple times, and his gritty, scarred visage bespoke a rough life. He already smelled of alcohol, and he raised a hand that looked as if it had been mangled by a machine to signal that he wanted a drink. When one was brought to him he sat over it thoughtfully, thick eyebrows drawn together as he discreetly surveyed the other occupants of the establishment. Finally after a while another rough-looking patron came over, eyeing the newcomer suspiciously with the one eye that was not covered by an eye-patch.

"Ah hain't seen you 'ere before," he said slowly. "Don't fink Ah like th' way yer starin' round the place."

The crooked-nosed man smiled wryly, exposing worn and heavily tobacco-stained teeth. "Aye, 'm not from 'ere. 'M lookin' fer…somone 'oo ken do a… _job_ fer me."

"Wh' sort o' job?" the other asked, cocking an eyebrow.

The first man glanced around cautiously, then looked back at the one-eyed man. "An _impor'n't _job…" his own brows raised expectantly as he stared at the other man. "It'll taike a good 'and. Know anyone what migh' be able t' 'elp me…?"

There was just enough discretion and suspicion in the man's voice to satisfy the one-eyed man, and he laughed, taking a seat across from the older man. "Haw haw…Ah might. Yer gonna haf'ta be a bit more specific, else Ah cain't help. Don't worry, Ah hain't no copper, and Ah hain't no squealer."

The haggard cripple glanced around a bit more. "I need som'one _taken care ov_…and I need somefin from th'r 'ouse."

"Ah…" the one-eyed man said, leaning closer to the other. "Ah know just wha' you need…You need that fella what don't got a name."

The cripple's brows drew together. "Don't got a name?"

"Aye, nobody knows 'oo 'e is. But 'e's good at fixin' fings up, y'know…'E can fix people, too, if ye know what Ah mean. Good a' gettin' stuff, too… All fer the right price, o' course."

"What sort o' price?"

"'Pends on 'ow 'ard th' job is…" The one-eyed man took out his worn tobacco pouch and pipe, proceeding to fill it as he cocked a brow at the man across from him expectantly.

"Jus' a normal bloke. Nofin' fancy. 'E's got a dog, but 'e's deaf as a clam."

The one-eyed man snorted. "Haw! Right, tha' won't cost ye much."

"Where can I find 'im?"

"Ah dunno... But ye can find blokes what knows 'im—or knows '_bout_ 'im—everywheres," the man replied around the stem of his pipe, looking slyly at the cripple. "Ah fink…_possibly_ Ah could tell ye 'ow t' get _in_ _touch_ wif 'im if ye refresh mah memory…"

The cripple looked sourly at the one-eyed man. "'D rather deal wif 'im directly. I's 'n easy matt'r, but stiwl a deli…delicate one," he hiccoughed around his words, but quickly continued. "I don't want no tricks tha'll end up comin' back on me."

The other's breezy demeanour fell. "'S th' only way t' do business wif 'im, and 'e's the one ye want if ye don't want t' swing for it! 'E hain't been in the game long, but 'e's as good as any."

The cripple stood. "'M sure I ken find som'one else t' do it wifout so much trouble." He drained his mug and slammed it back down upon the table. He then fished a coin from his tattered pocket, left it beside the glass, and stumbled out of the noxious atmosphere of the tavern.

He limped down the street for a while, eventually turning into a dark side alley, where he stopped to cautiously look behind him. Certainly no one was following… The man straightened up and scratched carefully at his nose, muttering a quiet oath.

_Blasted make-up…_ Sherlock Holmes thought, feeling carefully to make sure he had not damaged his disguise with his scratching. He had one or two other low criminal centres to check out still, and he did not want to arouse suspicion with a partially dislodged nose.

His nose was always one of the most difficult things to adjust in his disguises… Having it appear out-of-place was _always_ uncomfortable; nearly as much as when he tried to make it look average. Usually he was too focused on his task for it to bother him, but it seemed as if to-night it was not quite right and was causing him extra difficulty. When he had satisfied that his scratched itch had not damaged his false nose, he hunched back over, taking six inches from his height and re-assuming his persona, and stumbled down the dark street toward the next disreputable public house.

* * *

"So, ye've heard o' this 'man wifout a name', 'ave ye?"

"Aye," said a half-drunken sailor over his glass. "'E's a tough bloke. Shouldn' get tied up wiv 'im unless yer willin' to risk yer own neck fer th' money. 'S good money, though…" he took another long drink, his watery blue eyes staring at the thin foam in the mug.

Holmes scratched absently at a speck of God-only-knew-what that was encrusted on the outside of his own glass, and looked back over at the man when he had finished his draught. He would have to get the rest of his information quickly but carefully…The poor sailor's face was already an interesting shade of red, and he would be completely useless in a short amount of time at the rate he was drinking. "I don't wan' ta work for 'im, I just need a job done fer me," he said simply. "I been askin' round te see 'ow good 'e is."

"Mm…'E's got a devil's temper…Shdn't…" the sailor slurred, stumbling over his words, "Shouldn' get tied up wiv 'im."

The great detective sighed inwardly, but showed no sign of his impatience on his carefully-crafted exterior. "Ye work fer 'im, then?" he could not help but ask.

The sailor's glass lowered quickly, his reddened eyes fastening upon the disguised detective suspiciously. "'Oo told ye that?"

Holmes instantly recognised the situation and knew he would have to tread carefully to avoid a drunken conflict. "Nobody did, I was j'st askin'. I need somone 'oo knows this fella, or knows 'bout 'im."

The young seaman's glass slammed down onto the table, but the act was one of awkward movement and not hostility. "Oh…right, then… Better be carful, though…" his voice lowered, and in the process became more unintelligible. He leaned toward the detective, and Holmes fought to keep himself from gagging on the fumes on the man's breath. "Y'start askin' aft'r 'im, 'nd y' find tha' y' mighn't live very long. 'A's a warn'n' t' ye t' be car'fl.."

"Ah, tha' kind, is 'e? I'll keep tha' in mind. Thank 'ee…"

The sailor took a long drink from his next glass—Holmes was not sure how many that was for him. His next words were so absently said that the detective could barely make them out. "Mm… Go t' th' docks if y' still need tha' job… The Weston ware'ouse. Th're'll be somebody there tha' ken help ye."

Finally, a location. Excellent. Holmes stood and paid for his drink, which he had only drank enough of to keep up appearances. He noted that the sailor was paying more attention to the glass before him than to his surroundings, which might be dangerous if anyone had overheard his words and wanted to make him pay for his loose tongue. Holmes quietly made his way out and went on his way.

He stumbled along, giving the thorough appearance that he was inebriated and lame. The streets were dark by this time and there was a thin fog that diffused the light from the street lamps, making strange ghostly halos and giving a palpable depth to the shadows. In such an eerie atmosphere it would be easy to grow paranoid and fear for your neck, but Sherlock Holmes was not subject to such fancies…unless they had a basis in reality.

After a while his ears perked at a faint noise growing closer: cautious, steady footsteps. His senses were instantly on high alert, and when the noise only grew louder instead of disappearing, he developed a feeling deep in his mind that he was being followed. It was possible that he was being overly wary. Then again, it was also possible that another of Hughes's men had heard his inquiries… A close crime ring like that cannot afford to be too free with its information, and of course every inquiry must be investigated and meddlers severely punished.

Holmes kept his swaggering gait steady for a while, not wanting to arouse his possible pursuer's suspicions, and kept his mind and ears open for sure signs of danger. After he had reached a familiar side alley, he dodged into it, straightened up, and broke into a full run. Over the steady beat of his own boots against the cold street he heard the others—at least two—thudding at a strong pace behind. Holmes wished his shoes were of a better quality, for there was a bit of water leaking into them, and they almost did not feel as if they were going to hold together. He knew they _would_—he had made sure of that before he donned them at Baker Street—but their somewhat ill fit was making it difficult to run. Holmes was now counting on his great stride, stamina, and thorough knowledge of the London backstreets to save him. Certainly it had done so innumerable times before…

An indirect, tortuous route would naturally be best, and the great detective knew just the way to take. He was a good distance ahead of his pursuers, and at the last second he veered into another street. Rushing on ahead, he took the next turn that presented itself. If he just stayed far enough ahead and took enough _detours, _he could get out of their sight…

* * *

Holmes leapt over a discarded crate and paused, his breath coming quickly and heavily. He listened closely over the blood pounding in his ears… Finally, it appeared as if he had lost them. He would continue to be cautious, however, and take the long way back to Baker Street.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson was roused from her bed when he returned, but it was nothing to Sherlock Holmes. He was simply glad to be rid of the dingy costume. After he had cleaned up the various London soot and grime from himself he gratefully pulled on his dressing-gown and took up one of his pipes to ponder his next move. Watson was still absent, so he could not go to the warehouse. First he must check the building out on his own…he did not want to risk taking Watson into danger without knowing what sort of danger it may be. He drew on his pipe thoughtfully. Hughes was proving rather difficult to track, but he knew himself to be on the right scent somehow, even if there was little to show for his busy inquiries.

He leaned back and sighed, drawing deeper into his chair as he drew deeper into his mind, letting his dressing-gown envelop him. His day had been busy, but he knew to-morrow would be much more so.

* * *

**KS: Thanks for reading; don't forget to review! It may not be perfect, but I tried. XD Now I must see if I can make any progress on _Two Suspects_...I am apparently stuck...XD**


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